The march of umbrellas.  Half stretched

domes against turbulent clouds.

Faces pitched forward.  The rhythm of

drops is the exhaust from heaven.  It’s a

temporary wash of mankind, touching

coats and hats but not the heart.  There’s

a walk of escape to a point up ahead.

People blur the canvas of motion, fighting

against the forces of nature.  Everything

is awash in the color of wet.



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